This Isn't What It Looks Like (5 page)

“Who is it?—and don’t wake up the whole neighborhood!” came the muffled reply.

Max-Ernest opened the door and immediately started coughing uncontrollably. The van was so smoky, there might have been a
campfire inside.

“It’s… Max… uh… Er… nest…,” he managed to spit out between coughs.

The clowns, Mickey and Morrie, were sitting across from each other at a small folding table. As usual, they looked completely
disheveled, shirts buttoned incorrectly, traces of clown makeup on their unshaven faces, as though they’d just woken up—or
else hadn’t slept in days. On one side of them sat Myrtle, the circus’s bearded lady, a pink-and-green housecoat hiding her
ample girth. On the other side sat Pietro, the old magician and secret leader of the Terces Society, his bushy gray mustache
still showing the remains of his breakfast.

All four were smoking fat cigars. Large playing cards fanned out in their hands. A big pile of coins beckoned from the middle
of the table.

“Well, if it isn’t the two-named wonder!” joked Morrie, the shorter, fatter clown. “What do you think, Myrtle, would people
pay to see him? Two names is almost like having two heads, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, maybe we could promote him as a split personality. Dr. Max and Ernest Hyde,” joked Mickey, the taller, skinnier clown.

“The only split personalities around here are going to be yours if you keep teasing that poor kid,” said Myrtle.

She picked up an oversized yellow hammer off the floor and waved it threateningly. Max-Ernest was relieved to see that the
hammer was rubber, one of the clowns’ circus props.

He waved smoke away from his face. “Pi… e… tro… can… you… out… side?” he asked in a gasping
whisper. It was still very hard for him to speak, but this was an emergency.

“Just wait the minute, Max-Ernest. This game, it is not over.” The magician’s Italian accent made all his words sound slightly
comical and more than a little mischievous. As if a punch line were just around the corner.

“Just… for… a… sec… ond?”

Pietro shook his head. “I’m sorry, I cannot take my eyes off these clowns or they will steal the pot.”

Myrtle nodded sagely. “Sticky fingers, these two…”

“Who—us little lambs? We never steal!” exclaimed Mickey.

“Why should we? We cheat plenty good!” agreed Morrie.

“But… it’s… a… bout… Cass!” Max-Ernest protested.

Pietro put his finger to his lips, shushing Max-Ernest.

Helpless, Max-Ernest sat down on top of one of the clowns’ costume trunks—a curly red wig spilled out the side—and resigned
himself to watching the game.

“OK, my trick,” said Myrtle.
^*
“Leading with
wands. That would be the Ace of Wands,” she added smugly as she laid the card on the table.

Pietro smiled appreciatively. “
Molto bene
, my bearded partner!”

Max-Ernest craned his neck to see the card. He had assumed they were playing poker, but he’d never heard of an Ace of Wands
before.

“What… kind… of… cards… are… those?” he asked, interested despite himself.

“Tarot cards,” said Mickey. “And what happened to your voice? Used to be nobody could shut you up.”

On the counter next to Max-Ernest was an oversized polka-dot notepad and an oversized candy-striped pen—more circus props.
He picked up the pen and tested it on the notepad. (It worked, although it contained pink glitter-glue instead of ink.)

I HAVE LARYNGITIS, he wrote. And on the next line, YOU MEAN LIKE CARDS FOR FORTUNE-TELLING? Then he held up the pad for the table to see.

Morrie nodded. “Except when you gamble with them, you’re not wasting your money!”

“That’s right—you’re contributing to the Clown Improvement Society!” said Mickey.

“In Italy, there is a game we play with tarot cards, many hundreds of years old,” Pietro explained. “It is called the
Tarocchino
.”

“Enough history lessons, old man,” said Mickey. “Morrie?” He tapped the table twice, making sure Morrie saw him.

Morrie nodded discreetly. Or sort of discreetly.

“How sad! I’m fresh out of wands,” said Morrie, sounding not very sad about it. He held up a card face-out for all to see.
“Mr. Magician, I present my trump card… the Magician.”

The real-life magician’s eyes twinkled as he laid his card on top of Morrie’s. “How about a clown for a clown? Or should I
say, the Fool to trump a fool?”

“Wait, you can’t play the Fool—that’s like the Joker,” said Mickey, outraged. “You’re changing the rules…!”

“I am the only Italian in the room, no? I think I should know the rules. The Fool, he is wild. He trumps all.”

Mickey threw the Two of Wands on the table, then pushed the pile of coins toward the magician.

“Cheater!” he grumbled.

A few minutes later, Pietro and Max-Ernest stood outside the trailer. Miserable, Max-Ernest was scribbling furiously with
the candy-striped clown pen.

I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT AND SHE DIDN’T EVEN BLINK! SHE JUST KEPT LYING THERE. I
DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. THE DOCTORS SAY THE LONGER SHE STAYS IN A COMA, THE LESS LIKELY SHE’S EVER GOING TO WAKE UP.

He showed Pietro the pad, then added petulantly: NOT THAT YOU CARE!

Pietro put his hand on Max-Ernest’s shoulder. “I know you are angry with me. You think I should not be playing cards at a
time like this. That I do not love our Cass enough. But you must understand, the cards, they were telling us something—”

Max-Ernest looked at him suspiciously.

I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST PLAYING A GAME.

“That does not mean the cards have lost their power.”

BUT YOU DON’T THINK THEY’RE… Max-Ernest hesitated before writing the word… MAGIC? YOU DON’T ACTUALLY BELIEVE PEOPLE CAN SEE INTO THE FUTURE, DO YOU?

He couldn’t believe Pietro, his mentor and hero, could be so superstitious. Pietro was a professional magician—well, a retired
professional magician—not a wizard.

Pietro shrugged. “What is the magic? Most people, they think it is what cannot be explained. The magicians, we know better.
The magic, it is what has not been explained…
yet
. Here—”

He reached behind Max-Ernest’s left ear and seemed to pull out a coin.

Max-Ernest almost rolled his eyes—it was the oldest trick in the book. But still he observed closely. Pietro rarely did magic
tricks anymore, and it was always instructive to watch him.

Pietro closed his fist around the coin. When he opened his hand, there were two coins. He closed and opened his hand once
more; and once more there was only one. Rather than lying flat, it stood on its edge—as if to show there was no coin underneath.

“Now, where do you think is the other coin?”

Max-Ernest smiled knowingly.

YOU’RE HOLDING IT BETWEEN THE BACKS OF YOUR FINGERS.

“That is the usual method, yes,” admitted the magician.

But when he spread his fingers, there was no coin to be seen.

“This time it is something else.”

He turned his hand over, keeping his fingers spread open. The second coin was standing upright on the back of his hand, seemingly
perfectly balanced.

He turned his hand sideways and the coin did not move. Neither did the coin that was standing on
his palm. Both coins appeared to be weightless and/or stuck to his skin.

“What is the trick, do you think?”

TAPE? GLUE?

The magician shook his head. “See for yourself.”

He handed a coin to Max-Ernest, showing him that it was not the slightest bit sticky.

Max-Ernest grunted in frustration. It wasn’t in his nature to be stumped.

“Do not be upset. We do not need always to know everything right away,” said Pietro. “The magician, he wants to understand,
of course. How does the elephant float in the air? What makes the illusion? Is there a mirror or are there strings? OK, fine,
yes. This is the magician’s job. But, Max-Ernest, if you do not feel first the mystery, you do not see the magic! You are
like a musician who can make all the sounds but does not hear the music…. Now, take the other coin.”

As soon as Pietro handed the second coin to Max-Ernest, it stuck to the first coin. Max-Ernest pulled them apart—they flew
back together.

THEY’RE MAGNETS?

The magician nodded, smiling broadly.

Max-Ernest frowned, disgruntled.

ISN’T THAT CHEATING?

Pietro laughed. “You and the clowns with your cheating! It’s a magic trick! What is the cheating? There is no cheating in
magic, only in poker.”

I STILL DON’T SEE WHAT THIS HAS TO DO WITH TAROT CARDS. OR CASS.

“Who knows? Perhaps there is some force field that directs the cards just as the magnetic field swirls around the magnets.
Imagine, the people in the ancient world, what they thought the first time they saw the magnetism….”

As he spoke, Pietro took the magnetic coins back from Max-Ernest and made one dance in his palm by manipulating the other
coin above the first. “Invisible strings pulling two things together—it is magic, no? The cards, I know they are a sign. Just
because I do not understand their secret, that is no reason to ignore their message.”

OK, wrote Max-Ernest, not totally convinced. SO THEN WHAT WERE THE CARDS TELLING US?

The magician looked him in the eye. “Really? You are ready to listen?”

Max-Ernest nodded.

“Very well,” said Pietro gravely. “Did you notice how the Ace of Wands, it fell upside down? This, I think, means a wrong
must be righted. Or in this case, a stolen item returned.”

WHAT STOLEN ITEM?

“Did you not take the Tuning Fork from your principal? What is her name? Mrs. Johnson. This thing, it is bad luck. It wants
to be returned to its owner. That is why it will not help you.”

IT’S A METAL OBJECT. HOW CAN IT WANT ANYTHING?

“Is a magnet not a metal object? Does it not want to point north? You ask for my advice. This is my advice. Give the Tuning
Fork back to your principal.”

FINE, I’LL GIVE IT BACK, wrote Max-Ernest, not at all certain he understood. BUT THEN HOW DO WE GET CASS BACK? I NEED THE TUNING FORK TO MAKE THE ANTIDOTE.

“You must get her yourself.”

Max-Ernest stared in confusion. YOU MEAN FROM THE PAST? FROM BACK IN HISTORY?

“More or less. You must bring her home from her own head.”

BUT HOW??

“You know her head better than anyone. Get inside it.”

LIKE MIND READING?

“Yes, if you like to call it that.”

Max-Ernest shook his head in disbelief. Pietro had given him many impossible assignments in the past, but this one took the
cake.

“Listen, my friend. We both know you do not have the laryngitis.”

The magician gently extracted the pen from Max-Ernest’s hand and held it aloft as if it were one of his magic wands—or perhaps
the Ace of Wands. “Your problem, it is not here”—he pointed the pen at Max-Ernest’s throat—“it is here”—he pointed the pen
at Max-Ernest’s chest. “My heart is heavy, too. But you must be strong. This situation, it is very serious. It is not only
Cass’s life that is at stake. If she dies, the Secret, it will die, too.”

Max-Ernest reached for the pen, but Pietro shook his head and made the pen disappear with another sleight of hand (not easy
to do, considering the pen’s large size).

“Speak.”

Max-Ernest shrugged, resigned to using his voice. “I thought you didn’t want anybody to find out the Secret.”

“This is true,” agreed Pietro. “But the only thing worse than people finding out the Secret, it is that we lose the Secret
forever.”

Max-Ernest looked at the ground, pondering the magician’s words. Like everything about the Secret, they were paradoxical but,
he knew, of monumental importance.

“OK, I’ll be strong,” he said after a moment, in as forceful a voice as he could muster. “And if there’s any way to get inside
Cass’s head, I’ll find it.”

“Good. But first, return the Tuning Fork!” said Pietro, trying for a light tone he obviously did not feel. “And when this
is all over, and our friend Cass is on her feet once more, I will teach you to play the
Tarocchino
.”

With that last promise Pietro patted Max-Ernest on the back, then stepped back into the trailer to play another hand.

READER ADVISORY

ALERT LEVEL:
90% CACAO, VERY DARK

A RECENT REPORT FROM ABROAD INDICATES THAT SOME OF THE BOOKS IN THE SECRET SERIES MAY HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH BY AGENTS OF
THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

UNTIL PROVEN OTHERWISE, YOU SHOULD ASSUME THIS BOOK IS EQUIPPED WITH A DEVICE SUCH AS A RADIO FREQUENCY TRANSCEIVER OR GLOBAL
POSITIONING SYSTEM THAT ENABLES THE MIDNIGHT SUN TO TRACK THE BOOK AND ANYBODY WHO HAPPENS TO BE HOLDING IT.

IT IS ALSO POSSIBLE THAT THE BOOK MAY BE TREATED WITH AN INVISIBLE INK OR POWDER DESIGNED TO RUB OFF ON THE READER, IDENTIFYING
HIM OR HER AS A PERSON OF INTEREST TO THE MIDNIGHT SUN.

THERE IS NO WAY TO GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY OR THE SAFETY OF THIS BOOK, BUT HERE ARE A FEW ORDINARY PRECAUTIONS YOU SHOULD TAKE:

NEVER LEAVE THIS BOOK LYING OUT IN THE OPEN.
(OF COURSE, YOU SHOULDN’T LEAVE IT TELLING THE TRUTH OUT IN THE OPEN, EITHER. THAT WOULD BE EVEN WORSE!)

IF IT IS NECESSARY TO CARRY THIS BOOK IN PUBLIC, DISGUISE THE BOOK.
THE MOST COMMON
WAY TO DO THIS IS TO BORROW A COVER FROM ANOTHER BOOK OR TO MAKE YOUR OWN COVER OUT OF A BROWN PAPER BAG, BUT I ENCOURAGE
YOU TO USE YOUR OWN CREATIVITY. DISGUISES, LIKE ROUTINES, SHOULD BE VARIED AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE.

STAY ON THE LOOKOUT FOR ANY WHITE-GLOVE-WEARING STRANGERS AND EVEN—I HATE TO SAY IT—WHITE-GLOVE-WEARING FRIENDS.
REMEMBER, THE MASTERS OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN ARE SMART AND DEVIOUS. THEY MIGHT ADOPT DISGUISES THAT MAKE THEIR GLOVES LOOK INNOCUOUS—A
BATON-TWIRLER COSTUME, FOR INSTANCE. OR THEY MIGHT WEAR OUTFITS THAT HIDE THEIR GLOVES ALTOGETHER—LIKE A FULL-BODY MASCOT
COSTUME AT A BALL GAME OR THEME PARK. IT IS BEST NOT TO TRUST ANY WALKING ALLIGATORS OR PURPLE DINOSAURS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

DO NOT PANIC.
ANXIETY ATTACKS AND ASSOCIATED MALADIES LIKE DIZZINESS, NAUSEA, HYPERVENTILATION, SKIN RASHES, HIVES, AND INCONTINENCE, WHILE
PERFECTLY UNDERSTANDABLE, ARE NOT AT ALL HELPFUL.

USE COMMON SENSE.
IF SOMEBODY OFFERS YOU A THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR THIS BOOK, CHANCES ARE THEIR MOTIVES ARE NOT PURE. THEN AGAIN, A THOUSAND DOLLARS
IS A LOT OF MONEY. TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN.

IN THE UNFORTUNATE EVENT THAT YOU FIND YOURSELF CORNERED BY A MEMBER OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, PICK YOUR NOSE.
REALLY. MOST MEMBERS OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN ARE VERY FASTIDIOUS. THE SIGHT OF SOMETHING SO DISGUSTING WILL LIKELY CAUSE THEM
TO BACK AWAY IN HORROR, GIVING YOU A CHANCE TO ESCAPE. IF THAT DOESN’T WORK, YOU MIGHT
TRY TELLING THEM THEY HAVE SOMETHING STUCK IN THEIR TEETH. MIDNIGHT SUN MEMBERS ARE EXTREMELY VAIN AND THE THOUGHT OF SOMETHING
DIRTYING THEIR PEARLY WHITES SHOULD SEND THEM RUNNING TO THE NEAREST MIRROR.

LASTLY, I AM AWARE THAT CERTAIN TEACHERS AND LIBRARIANS AND EVEN SOME VERY IRRESPONSIBLE PARENTS HAVE ON OCCASION READ ONE
OR MORE OF MY BOOKS ALOUD TO ONE OR MORE CHILDREN.
IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT I HIGHLY DISAPPROVE OF THIS APPROACH. THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN PEOPLE READING ONE OF MY BOOKS
TO THEMSELVES IS PEOPLE SHARING IT WITH OTHERS. BE THAT AS IT MAY, I SUSPECT THAT ANY PLEADING ON MY PART WOULD HAVE LITTLE
EFFECT ON THE SITUATION; THOSE RECKLESS READ-ALOUDERS WOULD ONLY READ ALOUD LOUDER. PERHAPS, HOWEVER, A SUGGESTION OR TWO
WOULD NOT BE INAPPROPRIATE. IN THE EVENT THAT YOU OR SOMEBODY YOU KNOW SIMPLY MUST READ THIS BOOK ALOUD, PLEASE MAKE SURE
THE BLINDS ARE CLOSED, ANY RECORDING DEVICES ARE TURNED OFF, AND OF COURSE THAT THERE IS PLENTY OF CHOCOLATE AVAILABLE FOR
EVERYONE.

THANK YOU,

P.B.